Archive for September, 2017

You go. You come. You fight. You argue and I don’t know why. You say you care. You say you don’t want to be emotionally close. Only the people you lost mean anything to you. Those people are gone but you don’t care. You love them. I don’t fit in anywhere. I care but you pull away. Will this be it, the end for what I feel? My heart hurts; it truly misses you. It is baffled and confused. Is caring for you a crime according to you?

She put the plastic cup next to her on the sidewalk. It was a busy time of the afternoon. People of all ages walked by—kids with their parents, tourists with cameras hanging from their necks, well-dressed women wearing high end jewelry, good-looking men carrying briefcases. Not a cent, not one penny. What am I doing here? Why am I here? I don’t want to. I want to be someplace where doing this won’t be necessary.

Get out! This is our spot! It’s not yours, it belongs to us. We were here before you. One of the 2 men shouted at the man sitting cross legged on the sidewalk in front of the pharmacy. They wore shabby T-shirts and trousers on the dirty side. The man looked at them. You don’t own the sidewalk; nobody does. I am here for a few days, a few days only; then I am gone. It’ll be all yours. He took out a small pencil from his pocket. If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police, the woman next to the man said. She took out her cell phone and started to dial 911. The older of the 2 men made a gesture of disbelief and called someone with his phone. He said he has been here but I never saw him before. As soon as the 2 men left, the woman shook her head. What a horrible world this is! For a spot, a lousy spot, you could get hurt. That’s how it is, the man replied.

I will find you. I have no idea how, but I will find you. Where and/or when is not up to me. I will see you again. I gave you up. It was a foolish decision. I gave you up, you with the restless feet and you with the cute black and white pirate like head. I was scared, temporarily scared. It was that guy, that evil guy in the rooming house. It was him and his fat woman helper. The guy was mean, the one with the beady eyes. The woman was just like him, maybe even worse. Both of them were bad news from top to bottom. I can’t stop thinking about you. I think about you all the time. I am not scared anymore. You will be with me again.

You-it was you. You were the one who cheated me out of the money. It wasn’t much, just a few dollars, but it was my money. I earned it. It was me who helped you with the clear plastic bags full of empty cans and bottles. It was me who was there when you recycled them at the Duane Reade pharmacy in midtown. You think you were so cool and smart; you cheated a woman out of what was rightfully hers. It’s dog eat dog mentality as far as you are concerned. You think I’m weak. It is not so. People like you make me sad. I feel sorry for you.

You will never grow old. There will be no wrinkles on your face, nothing to tell the world how many years have gone by since the last time we saw each other. You were the one who taught me I had a soul, a mind and a body. I felt all three deeply and well because of you and only you. I loved you then. I loved you with so much heartbreak and joy. I love you now. You and I will be in our mid 20s forever. We will be young no matter what. There will be no pain; happiness will finally be ours.

Someone’s bag brushed hard against her leg but she didn’t say anything. She was getting off at the next stop and there was no point. For once, there was enough room on the subway seats; the younger woman sitting next to her didn’t think so because when her own and much smaller bag touched her by accident, she cursed. You bitch! The first woman stared at her. No, I am not a bitch. The man on one of the seats laughed. Others in the subway car looked, said nothing. The woman who had verbally abused her went on and on. You skinny; you’ve always been skinny. You look like my sister. The first woman remembered an incident on the subway where someone had hit a 70 year old woman over a seat. I can’t be your sister, she answered. I am not like you, nowhere near like you. The younger woman said she loved her anyway because she believed in Jesus. I don’t and can’t believe in Jesus if there are people like you in this world. Please go see a psychiatrist tomorrow. The subway seemed to take forever to get to her stop. Sometimes crossing the Manhattan Bridge from Canal Street to Dekalb Avenue took over 7 or 8 minutes. She sighed with relief when the train stopped. I hope this doesn’t happen again but next time I’m calling 911.

How did this happen? How did my hands grow old, with those blue veins showing through my skin? How did my face start to look wrinkled and jaded, disappointed about the dreams that didn’t make it? There were so many dreams that have been lost! I can’t count them anymore. How did I lose my innocent look, that look of wonder and excitement about what was going to happen next? My life was once like a book whose pages I couldn’t wait to turn. I wanted to know the next day’s action, the event that was going to follow yesterday’s event. Now I don’t care. Now the wonder is gone; the magic is no more.

Here it is. Another just like you wanted. I bought you another. I shouldn’t have but I couldn’t help it. You seemed to need it so much, so very much. I wanted to help, but maybe I helped in the wrong way. You can’t do without it. It’s the addiction. You go off it, but then you go back again. It is your poison; but to you the addiction is as important as chocolate ice cream is to a kid on a sultry summer day.

That’s it. It’s the liquor. The liquor that helps me be alive. I feel when I pour the liquid down my throat. I live then. I love my cans, all the lovely cans spread out before me. They are lovely. I am wanted. Life wants me.